


neither falling nor flying

by ascloseasthis



Category: Homeland
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Excessive Drinking, F/M, Oral Sex, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 16:35:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7539958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascloseasthis/pseuds/ascloseasthis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In retrospect, Carrie’s biggest mistake was not ordering the strike on Saul. Nor was it, ultimately, yielding to Quinn’s orders. </p><p>No, where Carrie fucked up was begging Quinn to come back to Islamabad in the first place. And, for that matter, failing to procure enough booze to deal with the commensurate bullshit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	neither falling nor flying

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zeffy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeffy/gifts).



> This was written for prompt #33 in [this challenge](http://carrie-quinn.livejournal.com/125637.html) at [carrie-quinn.livejournal.com](http://carrie-quinn.livejournal.com). Thanks to Zeffy for the prompt!

In retrospect, Carrie’s biggest mistake was not ordering the strike on Saul. Nor was it, ultimately, yielding to Quinn’s orders.

No, where Carrie fucked up was begging Quinn to come back to Islamabad in the first place. And, for that matter, failing to procure enough booze to deal with the commensurate bullshit.

-

Carrie’s been sitting at her desk for an hour now, a glass of wine at her elbow, poring over data that she’s reviewed a thousand times; hoping against impossible hope that _maybe_ she’ll find something she missed. Something that will lead her to Haqqani.

Unsurprisingly, there’s nothing.

With a sigh, she closes her laptop and goes to pour another glass of wine. She fills the glass to the rim; there’s not really enough left to put back into the refrigerator, so she swigs the dregs from the bottle and drops it into the recycling bin. There’s a loud clink of glass on glass.

Tipsy now, Carrie decides to put another bottle into the fridge to chill. She falls back on her heels a little as she crouches in front of the cupboard, steadying herself with a hand on the counter.

To her horror, she finds the cabinet bare. “Fuck,” she mutters, groping with her free hand in the dark space, coming up empty. “ _Fuck_ ,” she repeats, more forcefully, and slams the door closed.

Carrie pulls herself back to her feet, a little unsteady as she rises.

She has to have _something_ , she reasons, and glass back in hand she begins to methodically search through her kitchen. The adage floats sing-song through her head: _beer before liquor, never sicker,_ but though she wracks her brain for it, she can’t come up with a comparative warning for wine.

When her quest proves fruitless, Carrie finishes her drink and tries to fathom out a plan B.

The answer comes to her suddenly, clearly, so fucking obvious she can barely stand it. _Quinn_ , she realizes — she remembers his eyes, the intense horror on his face when he’d shouted for her soldiers to stand down. _Her_ soldiers, and she’s pissed all over again.

But, she rationalizes, he _definitely_ will have alcohol. Whether he’s awake and drinking it or passed out and vulnerable to theft, he’s way further down the road to alcoholism than she is.

She snags her keys off the coffee table. She knows one of them belongs to him; she has to squint to figure out which, and that _alone_ should indicate that this is an epically bad idea.

-

Quinn’s quarters are on the same floor as hers, but situated at the opposite end of the hallway. Carrie sneaks barefoot down the corridor, one palm flat against the wall for support. At night the lights are only half-lit as an energy-saving measure; Carrie’s eyes dart around as she moves, keeping a lookout for any of the security officers who are supposed to roam the embassy at night.

The coast is clear the whole way. Carrie reaches Quinn’s door, double-checks the nameplate to make sure she’s not actually attempting to break in on the ambassador, and then slips her key into the lock.

It turns.

She pushes the door open slowly, peering into the dark apartment and praying the hinges won’t creak. Stealthily as she can manage in her mildly intoxicated state, she steps inside, closing the door silently behind her.

Quinn’s place is pitch-dark. She wishes she’d brought her phone as a flashlight, but his quarters have the same basic layout as hers, so she’s confident she can feel her way to his kitchen area. She gives herself a minute to adjust to the darkness, head cocked as she listens for movement.

There is no sound.

 _Christ_ , she thinks. _All this fucking creeping around and he’s probably not even here._

Still, she moves as carefully as she can through his space, testing her footing with every silent step, using touch to gauge her location. So cautious, so quiet, there’s a part of her that can’t wait to brag about it later. But just as her fingers are about to curl around the doorframe to his kitchen, so close to her quarry, Carrie loses her footing entirely, falls terrified to the floor, wind knocked completely out of her.

Her shriek is silenced, immediately, by a hand on her mouth.

She lashes out in fear, attempts to bring a knee to her aggressor’s chest, but he’s too quick for her, has her whole body covered under his heavy frame in half an instant. “Carrie?” she hears, Quinn’s astonished low voice. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He moves to free her to speak, but keeps the rest of her pinned under his weight.

Carrie is not sure how to answer his question. Tipsier than she realizes, she opts for a version of the truth. “Do you have anything to drink?”

“Really, Carrie?” His tone is dripping with judgment, but he backs off physically at least, gets to his feet and helps her up too.

“ _Really_ , Quinn,” she mimics him. “It’s been a rough fucking day.”

He flicks on the light. “You mean the part where you tried to drop a bomb on Saul? Or the part where your boyfriend got shot?"

It's a low blow; startled by his cruel bluntness, Carrie's mouth open and closes before she decides, in seconds, to match his firing power. "No, Quinn, the part where you got in the way of me doing my fucking job."

"So, if you'd bombed the shit out of your career mentor, it'd be just another great day at the office?"

"No! Yes. I don't — I don't fucking know, Quinn, just quit it with the father routine, okay? You're here to _help_ me."

"That's what I was doing, Carrie. Whether you can see it or not." He exhales, deflating under her stare. "What's your poison?"

Carrie can't do anything more than blink at him. "What?"

"What do you want to drink, Carrie? That's what you came for, right?"

She pauses, suddenly unsure. "Right."

"So?"

"I'll have what you're having."

“Great.”

Quinn has to push past her to get into the kitchen. Carrie flattens against the door jamb to give him room, finds herself holding her breath until he retrieves two glasses and sets them on the counter. He pours out a couple of fingers of Irish whiskey.

“Cheers,” he toasts caustically.

Carrie takes the offered glass, but doesn’t toast back. Something in the moment feels fragile. “Can we sit?”

He brings the bottle.

-

They drink in silence for a while, side-by-side on Quinn’s — the embassy’s — love seat. Carrie somehow doubts he’s ever picked out furniture in his life. He doesn’t seem the type.

None of this is him really. He fits in, he does his job, he does it _well_ ; but work is the only defining aspect of his life that she can see. Take that away and who is he? What’s left?

Admittedly, she muses, one could probably say the same of her. A baby at home who doesn’t even know her face — there’s not enough whiskey in the world for this.

Quinn says, “another?”

Carrie holds out her glass. “I know I should thank you,” she admits, but stops short of actually doing so. Drains the glass for the second — (third?) time and then puts it down on the coffee table.

He shifts backward, twisting to look at her. “I’m still fucking pissed,” she adds, eyebrows raised indignantly.

“I got that,” he drawls. “You’re welcome to fuck off.”

She considers it. She got what she came for, after all — but she doesn’t feel better. Moderately tipsy, halfway to drunk, she’s no closer to forgetting her problems than she was when she came here tonight. “Are you kicking me out?” she asks finally, realizing as the words slip out how much it will honestly fuck her up if he says yes.

Quinn doesn’t, though, just sighs out a “ _no,”_ and her whole body relaxes. He reaches for her glass, clearly attempting to double-down on the negative with another round, but Carrie stops him, covering his hand with hers.

He glances back, catching her eye; she closes the gap between them, impulsively pressing her lips to his. Quinn stills, obviously surprised. “Carrie—”

“ _Quinn_ ,” she parries seriously, looking at him. They’ve been on this track for a long time, or they _were_ , up until — she doesn’t want to think about it, certainly doesn’t want to talk about it. “Quinn,” she says again, leaning in.

This time he responds, kissing back with an unexpected intensity, his palm moving to the back of her head to keep her where he wants her.

Carrie takes the green light, moves to straddle him on the sofa. He's hard, she can feel him pressed against her center. Quinn's free arm moves to circle her automatically, he pulls her tight against his chest, the space between them is nonexistent. He angles back, cradling the base of her skull still, and lets his forehead rest against hers. "Jesus, Carrie," he mutters, but she's chasing her oblivion and will not be deterred.

She grinds her hips against him. Quinn groans, slides his hand beneath her shirt. His palm is callused and rough on her skin. Carrie shivers, feels goosebumps start to ripple down her arms.

He gets her shirt off without preamble, breaking the kiss momentarily to pull it over her head. Carrie's nipples pebble in the cool air; Quinn lets his hand trail to her breast with a sure touch. She gasps at the sensation, everything about him huge and overwhelming.

This, yes — she tangles her fingers into his sleep-mussed hair, tugs at it. His eyes snap open, pupils blown with desire, and Carrie takes a second to just watch him, to appreciate him. His breathing is controlled, but she can tell he's working at it; she rolls her hips forward just to hear the catch of it.

She is not disappointed. “Fuck,” he mutters, and Carrie can’t help smiling, tipping her head back as Quinn’s mouth moves down her throat, hovers over her carotid pulse. Her heart is racing under his tongue, and Carrie is starting to feel desperate.

“ _Quinn_ ,” she says, grabbing for the bottom of his shirt. She drags it over his head, lets her hands drop to his chest. It’s slow, it’s too fucking slow. She pushes herself up, steps back to the floor on shaky legs to shed the rest of her clothes. “Come on,” she urges him, reaching for him — he lets her pull him to his feet, but he keeps going, walking her back toward his bedroom.

She’s caught in the momentum, trusts him enough. When the backs of her knees hit the bed, Carrie sits, and goes to pull him back beside her. But he doesn’t, he sinks to the ground in front of her and hooks his hands around her knees. “Lay down,” he instructs her, and Carrie obliges, but props herself on her elbows so she can watch.

He never stops looking at her as he parts her legs, slides his palm up her inner thigh. She’s so wet it’s almost embarrassing, tactile evidence of her desperation. “Quinn,” she says, a little fretful, but he doesn’t respond, just drags her to the edge of the bed so he can better access her center.

She cries out at the first swipe of his tongue along her slit; she feels lost, caught in the moment like amber. It’s been a while, too fucking long, and this — this, she’s been waiting for, with Quinn. The inevitability of it pulses through her as he circles her clit. She stutters his name, it’s too much, too intense. He slides a finger inside of her, then another, Carrie is keening hysterically under his touch.

Her fingers grope uselessly in the sheets, can’t find anything to hold onto. Her breathing is erratic, each managed exhale punctuated with his name — chanting, _begging,_ she doesn’t fucking know. His mouth is as good as his hands and he’s got her coming in almost no time at all; her body seizes up under his ministrations, and Carrie feels the orgasm ripping through her body.

“Quinn,” she manages. She can’t fucking move, so she gestures, says his name again, again. He withdraws his fingers and rises, still watching her. Still fucking silent. “Come _here_ ,” she insists, still sated and boneless on the mattress. “And lose the fucking pants.”

He obliges, kicking his pajama pants off. Carrie lets her eyes slide over him, lets herself admire the view for a few seconds.

Quinn is _gorgeous_ , she’s always known that objectively. But she’s never been in a state of mind to appreciate it properly, or him — but _fuck_ , she’s wasted so much time. “C’mere,” she orders him, punctuating it with a gracious sweep of her arm.

“You sure?” He doesn’t sound apprehensive or conflicted, just —

“ _Please_ ,” she says, a little playful, a little sarcastic. “I want you to fuck me.”

Quinn opens his bedside drawer, rummages for a condom but comes up empty. “Carrie—”

“It’s _fine_ , trust me. I learned my lesson. Come.”

He clearly doesn’t need to be asked twice, because he sinks onto the bed beside her. “I need you, Quinn,” she breathes, all honesty, and he moves to kiss her. Carrie’s arms come up around him, she slides her leg up to settle over his hip, giving him access. Quinn slips his fingers back between her thighs, finding her just as wet and wanting as before. “ _Please_ ,” she says, for the second time that night, probably for the second time since she’s known him.

In an instant, he’s hovering over her, poised to enter her. “Say it again,” he commands her.

“Please,” she acquiesces, because she needs him so fucking badly. “Please,” she says again, for good measure, and he drives into her with one smooth, precise stroke. She needs a second to adjust to his size, the glorious stretch of his cock inside her, so she gropes for his face, pulling him toward her for a brief, messy kiss, tastes herself on his tongue.

He starts to thrust, sure strokes inside of her that start out measured. His hand trips back between her legs while he fucks her, seeking out her clit. His body is controlled, his movements, but his _eyes_ — they give him away every fucking time. She reaches for his face, to touch his cheek, but Quinn grabs at her wrist and pins it overhead. “Fuck, Quinn,” she moans, as he brings her other wrist up as well, grips them both in his massive hand.

It hurts, the wood of the headboard digging into her arm as he holds her there. He is surrounding her, overwhelming her, filling her with himself.

She can tell he’s getting close, his fingers find her clit again as his thrusts become more urgent. “Q-Quinn,” she stutters, she’s almost there herself. A perfectly-timed stroke combined with his fingers between her thighs sends her careening, screaming, over the edge. Her muscles contract almost violently around his cock, Carrie’s entire body is pulsing with pleasure. “Oh my god,” she’s practically chanting, the phrase interspersed with his name.

He’s clearly waiting her out, she can feel it, the tension stringing his body tight. Still restrained, utterly spent, at this point she's just being used for Quinn’s pleasure. She likes it. He keeps thrusting, driving into her so hard she feels like he might split her in half until he loses it, finally, spilling inside of her with a breathless groan.

Quinn lets go of her wrists, drops his hands back to the bed so that he can support his own weight when he collapses on top of her. She likes this, too, being covered by him, the weight, the warmth. She can feel his heart pounding.

After a minute he shifts, pulling out of her. That part she doesn’t like, and she rolls over to her side to look at him. His skin is damp with perspiration, breathing still as ragged as hers. She’s never seen him like this. She can almost feel her heart swell to look at him. “Quinn.”

“Yeah, Carrie.”

“I’m—” _sorry_ , she almost wants to say, but she’s not ready for that conversation. “Thank you,” she says instead.

Quinn just smiles. "You want another drink?”

“Not really,” Carrie says, and leans in to kiss him again.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd be totally remiss if I didn't thank Leblanc1 for her input, encouragement, and editing. She is the best.


End file.
